Page 32 of Where The Devil Kneels

“He’ll try to make me look unstable,” I muse aloud, thinking through the tactics. “The paranoid woman living alone in the haunted house where people keep disappearing.”

I tap my pen against the page, mind racing. “Then I need to flip the script. Present as completely rational. Documented. Prepared.” I look up at Silas, a plan forming. “And I need to understand exactly how deep his control goes before I walk into that meeting.”

Silas returns to the cabinet and extracts a final, thicker folder. “This contains profiles of every council member, their connections to Garrow, their vulnerabilities, and their pressure points.” He places it before me. “Study it tonight. Memorize their faces, their weaknesses. In that room tomorrow, knowledge will be your only weapon.”

I open the folder. Page after page of secrets—affairs, debts, bribes—all in Silas’s tight script. People I’ve passed on the street, now stripped bare on paper.

“How do you know all this?” I ask, looking up from a particularly damning page about the council treasurer’s tendency for very young escorts.

Something almost like pride flashes across Silas’s face. “I’ve been watching this town for twenty-three years. Nothing happens that I don’t eventually learn about.” His voice softens slightly. “This house has always been a sanctuary, Elara. But it’s also a watchtower.”

I nod, turning back to the documents. Tomorrow I face Garrow armed with decades of Silas’s intelligence. I may look like I’m walking in alone, but I’ll carry the full weight of Merrick vigilance with me.

The town hall towers over the square, all red brick and Victorian style, with a spire that seems to judge me. I stop at the bottom of the granite steps, straightening my charcoal blazer and pencil skirt—professional, but not too formal. My leather-bound journal is under my arm, filled with notes from Silas, covered in my rushed handwriting from last night. I won’t pull it out, but just having it feels like carrying protection into enemy territory.

Inside, the main chamber smells of polish and authority. Dark oak panels and brass fixtures shine under stained-glass windows, where portraits of town founders seem to glare down at me. My table sits alone in the center, making me look up at the committee members on their raised platform. The gallery seats curve around, so everyone can watch what happens next.

I take my seat and arrange my notebook and pen with deliberate calm, aware that several pairs of eyes are already tracking my movements. According to Silas’sfiles, the silver-haired woman to Garrow’s right is Helen Pritchard, whose son’s college tuition was mysteriously covered after she voted to approve Garrow’s controversial rezoning plan. The balding man with wire-rimmed glasses is Douglas Fleming, whose gambling debts were erased following his appointment to the historical preservation committee. I recognize each face, connecting it to the web of corruption Silas outlined for me. Knowledge is power, I remind myself. Or at least, it’s better than walking in blind.

Mayor Lyle Garrow calls the meeting to order with three sharp raps of his gavel. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes as he scans the packed room.

“We gather this evening to address concerns regarding the historic Hale property,” he announces, voice pitched to carry without seeming aggressive. “As stewards of this town’s heritage, the council has an obligation to ensure all historic properties meet appropriate standards of care and safety.” His gaze lands on me with the subtle menace of a predator assessing a meal. “We welcome Miss Elara Hale, who has recently taken residence in the estate, and appreciate her willingness to address our questions.”

Willingness. As if I had a choice when summoned by official parchment. I offer a tight smile and a single nod, channelling every business meeting where I’ve had to look pleasant while men explained my job to me.

“Miss Hale,” Garrow continues, “perhaps you could begin by sharing your plans for the property’s restoration. Our records indicate significant structural concerns that previous inspections identified.”

I lean slightly toward the microphone they’ve placed before me. “The estate’s structure is actually quite sound,” I reply, keeping my voice steady and professional. “I’ve had independent assessments conducted by qualified engineers. I’d be happy to provide those reports for council review.

Garrow’s eyebrow twitches slightly; the first attack deflected. “And these independent assessors, they were aware of the property’s… unique history?”

“I’m not sure what history would be relevant to a structural assessment,” I counter. “Foundation integrity doesn’t change based on who lived in a house previously.”

A few giggles from the gallery. Garrow’s smile tightens.

“I’m referring to the concerning pattern of mental instability among previous occupants,” he says, producing a folder with a theatrical flourish. “We have documented cases spanning nearly a century of residents reporting paranoia, hearing voices, and becoming increasingly isolated. The most recent case before you was Julian Mercer in 2001, who claimed ‘presences’ were moving through the walls.”

Julian Mercer—a name I recognize from Silas’s files. A distant cousin of the Merrick family who’d served as an official “resident” while the actual guardians operated behind the scenes.

“I haven’t experienced anything similar,” I say, maintaining eye contact with Garrow rather than the papers he’s pretending to consult. “The house is old, so yes, it makes noise. That’s normal for a structure of its age.”

Garrow’s smile turns predatory. “And yet, Officer Peck reports you were speaking to an empty house yesterday morning. Addressing someone named ‘Silas’ while alone in your foyer.”

Ice water floods my veins. I’d forgotten about the open door when I called out to Silas. Rookie mistake.

“I was rehearsing a phone call,” I lie smoothly. “I often speak aloud when organizing my thoughts. It helps with clarity.”

“A curious habit,” Garrow presses, leaning forward. “Especially given the reports we’ve received about lights moving through the house at odd hours. About voices when you’re supposedly alone.”

Whispers ripple through the gallery. I feel the trap closing, see the satisfaction in Garrow’s eyes as he thinks he’s cornered me into either admitting to hallucinations or confessing to having someone else in the house, someone not on any official record.

“Are you suggesting I’m mentally unstable, Mayor Garrow?” I ask, injecting just enough edge into my voice to suggest this line of questioning borders on slander. “Because that’s a serious accusation to make in a public forum.”

Before he can respond, movement in the gallery catches my attention. Nora Voss rises from her seat, clutching a stack of yellowed documents to her chest. Her usual bubbly demeanour has been replaced with something steely I’ve never seen before.

“Mayor Garrow,” she calls out, her voice carrying clearly across the chamber. “I believe these documents are relevant to tonight’s discussion.”

Garrow’s face darkens. “Miss Voss, this is not the appropriate time—”